


Undertow

by Amythe3lder



Series: Irregular Pieces [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Backstory, Drugs, F/M, M/M, Molly ships Johnlock, Mutual Pining, POV Molly Hooper, Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Post Mary, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, body parts, so much pining from everyone, the chairs are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-10-13
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amythe3lder/pseuds/Amythe3lder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She held back from correcting them, because the truth was even more absurd and still as hopeless. It never <em>was</em> Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unintentional Party

**Author's Note:**

> I made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/amythe3lder/undertow).
> 
> Well I woke up in mid afternoon 'cause that's when it all hurts the most  
> I dream I never know anyone at the party and I'm always the host  
> "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby"- Counting Crows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't let me darken your door  
> That's not what I came here for  
> "Reminder"-Mumford & Sons

It was entirely too damp to be polite, Molly thought as she rang the bell at her friend’s Baker Street flat. The rain had been abrupt of late, and the wind a bit grabby. People tended to imitate atmospheric conditions, and everyone seemed a bit more snappish than was absolutely necessary. Still, things were looking up.

That morning the pathologist had been awoken by the _ting_ of a text message being received a few minutes before her alarm was set to go off. She had known before she picked up her phone from the bedside dresser that it was from Sherlock.  <The goose is cooked. The egg is safe. SH>

Molly had blown out her relief in a puff of breath and grinned as she replied: <Have you killed the gander yet?>

<He has agreed to live in my pond. I need to fatten him up first. SH>

<Don’t spare the axe too long or the meat won’t be tender.>

<I think this metaphor is becoming unwieldy. SH>

<Your head is unwieldy. Talk to John. Talk, snog, shag, repeat. Remember?>

<Yes. John is bringing Elanor home to Baker Street in a few days.  I’ve agreed to limit experiments in the flat. I would have agreed to a great many things. SH>

<You need to babyproof.>

<John's daughter is welcome here, and I admit I'm appalled at you. SH>

<Babyproof= make your area safe for little children.>

<Ah. I’m paying some of my homeless network to help me clean tomorrow. In the meantime, already bored. Bring me toys. While I still maintain my autonomy. SH>

<John maintains your autonomy much better than you ever did.>

<The loss of personal agency has begun. He’s having some people over. To what was once my flat. Stop by after your shift. Any spare parts will curry favor with your sub-host. SH>

<I’ll bring a part to your party.>

*        *        *

Molly was dropping off a necrotic duodenum for Sherlock’s private study, saying hello to everyone, and then she was going home to give herself a foot rub and fall asleep watching a Torchwood rerun. At least, that was the plan until she was welcomed in by a smiling John who swapped her biohazard container for a drink and nudged her toward the couch. Molly looked down at her alcoholic beverage in its tea-stained mug before taking in the packed room, still unsure as to what turn her evening had taken, but not disagreeable enough to make a fuss and turn down a good champagne.

There were some guests Molly hadn’t met or didn’t know well: a restaurant owner named Angelo, an elderly couple that had to be the Holmes parents, and Wiggins the Professional Addict-Minder. Greg Lestrade was headed to the kitchen, presumably for more crisps. Also present were a few scattered members of his team, and Molly smiled and nodded to the newly reinstated Philip Anderson and to Sally Donovan, with whom she had cultivated an acquaintanceship. The pathologist thought of the lady copper as a friend in her own mind, but she wasn’t certain if it was mutual and didn’t want to presume. She had never been terribly skilled at reading the intentions of living people with whom she was not closely familiar, and she thought the whole social mess would be simpler if she could come right out and ask to be friends.

Mrs. Hudson was in Sherlock’s customary chair, the misty-eyed honorary grandmother cradling Elanor. The usual occupant of the chair stood by the writing table which supported a plate stacked high with lemon and strawberry tarts. He was trying to eat them all without anyone noticing. And so was...

Dear.

*        *        *

The thing was, it was really so easy to keep it quiet.

Everyone thought they knew. People would see her around Sherlock and guess that she was in love with him. She held back from correcting them, because the truth was even more absurd and still as hopeless. It never _was_ Sherlock. Sure, the detective was blisteringly brilliant and outrageously attractive, but he was also a monumental cock. That alone would have quietly smothered any minor infatuation in its infancy, but honestly she had felt naught but friendship and an almost sisterly obligation to his well-being from the start. Molly remembered stumbling across him soon after accepting her position at St. Bart’s. For a moment, she had naturally thought he was a corpse that had come partially uncovered, because who takes a nap on a gurney in a morgue?

That was the first time Sherlock challenged her preconceived notions. He had grumbled at her to stop bothering his sheet.

When she was done screaming, he had sat up, his face scrunched in annoyance, and introduced himself. As she got a better look at the gaunt figure, the dilated pupils in his glazed gaze, she excused her assumption that he was dead. She wasn't too far off the mark, by the look of him. At university, a young woman in Molly’s dormitory had started a love affair with intravenous drugs. She hadn’t returned for classes the following term. The doctor studied her impromptu patient and asked the strung-out young man, “Cocaine or heroin?”

“Both,” he replied defiantly. Then he followed her up to the lab and set about impressing her and making a mess. She had his too-thin frame in her mind’s eye as she ordered far more lunch than she needed. Most of her pizza disappeared without him seeming to be aware that he was the one eating it. It would be a few years before Molly realized that his need for any sort of nourishment was a secret he was keeping from himself as well as others.

*        *        *

Molly sniffed a bit at the mug of champagne, letting the bubbles tickle her nose before taking a sip. The warm tea-and-coffee scents mixed with the crispy lightness of the drink the mug held. It was an unexpected-but-welcoming sort of smell. _This is how we celebrate in this crew_ , she thought. She listened to the stream of conversation, content to observe the laughter and bickering without feeling pressured to dip a toe in yet. John was describing the capture of his ex wife for the assembled guests, several of whom hadn’t been aware of her duplicitous nature. She herself hadn’t seen that coming, but the shock had been somewhat mitigated by her unease with Mary. She had done a reading soon after Sherlock had returned. In the privacy of her kitchen, she had spread out her cards, pulled three, and flipped them. She had politely not looked further.

The morning after the wedding, she had firmly refused Sherlock’s insistence that she try to predict the gender of the future Watson. He had devised an experiment involving the use of cards, a pendulum, and a scrying ball and wanted her to try all three and compare results. That had been how she learned of the baby in the works. _Oh, Sherlock. Of course you left early._ She had seen his face when he realized, at last and too late, that he loved. _This is how we do_ everything _in this crew. Accidently._


	2. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that she had a dedicated drawer for her things was something they had not discussed. Their friendship was an odd mix of one of them saying too much and then nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But fingers tap into what you were once  
> And I'm worried that I blew my only chance  
> Whispers in the dark  
> Steal a kiss and you'll break your heart  
> Pick up your clothes and curl your toes  
> Learn your lesson, lead me home  
> "Whispers in the Dark"-Mumford & Sons

Molly started as Greg lowered himself onto the couch beside her, gave her a conspiratorial wink and offered her the open end of the crisp bag. She grinned in thanks and took one. He gestured to where Sherlock was squinting at a thermometer display before handing the bottle to John, who had just wrestled his daughter away from their landlady. Sherlock pulled his phone out and tapped out a quick note while John teased him for being more particular about Elanor’s food than she was likely to be. “What do you think’s going on there?” Greg murmured.

“Not as much as will be, if Sherlock has any say in the matter.” The detective inspector raised his eyebrows a bit at Molly’s quiet reply and she nodded towards the door. “Need a smoke break?” she suggested, “Not that I’m condoning it, but you’re looking a bit twitchy and I could use some air.” Greg took the hint and they slipped out. The drizzle continued, but the wind had calmed. Once the pair stood under the awning outside Speedy’s, Molly glanced around and, seeing no one they knew, went on under her breath, “The man’s been asking me for advice. Can you imagine? The blind leading the mad.”

Greg grimaced as he lit his cigarette. “Isn’t that rough, you helping him work his… charms, or whatever- on someone else?”

“He’s my friend. They both are, really, and I think John is good for Sherlock,” she leaned in a bit, “Have you ever heard him talk about John when he’s not around? His whole heart is in his voice. If he can just talk _to_ John that way, I think everything else will fall into place.”

“Well yeah, maybe. Probably. I know the tone you mean, ‘cause I’ve heard John use it himself, after a pint or two. But what about you?”

“I was never in the running. And that’s perfectly all right, it is, honestly.” She paused. She would need to discuss this with Sherlock very soon, but she figured that events were progressing swiftly towards the point where keeping quiet would do him more harm than good. “Here, Greg, can I tell you something that maybe doesn’t need to get batted around just yet? Not a secret, just not common knowledge, see?” Molly waited for his nod, then took a breath, “I haven’t got romantic feelings for Sherlock. I never have. I can understand how it would seem that way, and then everyone assumed and rather than be accused of protesting too much, I just didn’t protest at all. Easier that way,” she shrugged.

Greg looked skeptical. “You always acted so awkward- sorry- around Sherlock.”

The pathologist nodded, “I have been awkward around most everybody, if you think about it. I’m getting much better!” She pointed out cheerfully, before continuing, “But, well, I’ve always lived more in my books and actual people can be frankly baffling.” She gave him a smile and he returned it with one of his own.

“That awful Christmas…”

“I wasn’t dressed up for Sherlock, and his gift arrived professionally wrapped. He’s not actually omniscient, you know.” She was laughing now, and leaned her back against the building.

*        *        *

John had no idea what was going on.

This was true as a general rule where Sherlock was concerned, but at this moment in particular, it was clear that he had completely lost the thread and was at loose ends and any number of other string-related idioms might be busily applying themselves to this situation.

Molly Hooper was in Sherlock’s bedroom.

Now, he had no business being- not interested- um, _concerned_ , over what Sherlock did in the relative privacy of his own flat. John hadn’t even begun moving back home yet; he wouldn’t be back here tonight except he had got within sight of the house before remembering the nappy bag he had left at Baker Street. He had considered just picking it up later, but Elanor’s favorite soft toy was in the main pouch and she had never slept without it. The stuffed bee had been a gift from Sherlock for what he’d called her “zero birthday,” and the doctor had every reason to believe that it would be in everyone’s best interest if he just turned the SUV around and went back for it. Mrs. Hudson had snatched his child away as soon as she heard him come in and absently waved him on upstairs while she cradled the infant who clearly already adored her.

Molly had been the last left as the party wound down and she’d offered to help Sherlock tidy up and set up the experiment for whatever vile thing she had arrived with inside that container. John had gratefully left them to it. Now he was trying to coax his sense of propriety into shuffling his feet away from his flatmate’s bedroom door. But he was curious and- sod that, he could admit it to himself at least- he was _jealous_ , and though he knew he had no claim on Sherlock’s affections, he had _hoped_ , damn it, and now his feet wouldn’t move. So he listened.

*        *        *

“You’ll be needing socks, Sherlock,” Molly said. She was sitting against the footboard of Sherlock’s bed carefully applying a dark blue lacquer to her toenails. She had found a tatty tea-towel in the kitchen while they washed the few dishes from the gathering and Sherlock had agreed that she could use it to paint her toes over, provided she painted his, too.

“I don’t like sleeping in socks,” he replied with the uninterested tone of someone who has had this same discussion so many times before that it’s become a comforting ritual and is only half-listening so he knows when it’s time to state his point. He had changed into pyjamas while she was in the loo, doing likewise. Her knit set with the sheep and stars had been washed again and put back in the little drawer she used. She wondered if Mrs. Hudson was laundering her sleepwear, and what the older lady thought about that.

 “I don’t like waking up suspended over the edge of the bed in an avalanche of gangly limbs with you hugging my head and your feet on my arse, but that’s how this always ends.” She bit her lips to keep from grinning as he rolled his eyes and got a pair of socks out of the indexed drawer. He sat down slowly so as not to jostle her hand as she finished her work on her toenails.

“I like your head. It’s your best feature. I’ve said sorry for the other thing, but my toes get cold,” he punctuated this pseudo-apology by wiggling those appendages as his friend dipped her brush again and turned to start coating them with polish.

“So does my bum, when it comes into contact with your feet. That’s why I wake up. That’s why you need the socks. And more iron in your diet, too, for that matter.”

“I take a supplement for that.”

“You know you’re supposed to take those with a meal. Otherwise you’re going to end up with a necrotic duodenum of your very own.”

“I wondered if there was a subtext in your gift today,” he chuckled darkly. He lowered his tone along with his eyes and said, “I have a complicated relationship with food.”

Molly spoke gently, “You have a complicated relationship with your sense of self-worth because you’ve built your identity around the reactions of others, so you don’t think you exist if no one is acknowledging you. And it’s devastating when the feedback is negative, because you have no choice but to believe it. There’s your trouble. It’s got nothing to do with food, really, has it? You know you need it, but you don’t want to need anything.”

She was done with his last three nails before he answered her, “I think I understand all of that negative feedback after that bit of insight. That, my dear, was annoying.” The detective studied his blue toenails and blew at them.

“Your face is annoying,” she said to lighten the mood.

“There goes my self-worth.”

“If someone else can affect it, it isn’t _self_ -worth.” The pathologist pulled her spare hairbrush out of her drawer. Sherlock tapped her on the shoulder and held out a hand for the brush.

“Oh,” was all he said for a moment as he brushed out her hair, then, “You’ve got a new gray one.”

“Reassurances of the ever-progressing meander towards oblivion,” she said flatly.

Sherlock snorted. “For someone so cheerful, you’re notably morbid.” He set the brush down and set about braiding her hair into a tidy plait.

“Entropy is inevitable. I find inevitability soothing,” she replied. “Besides, I believe in reincarnation. Maybe in my next life I’ll be a goldfish.” As he wrapped an elastic band around the end of her braid, Molly touched a finger to the paint on his toes and judged them dry enough to survive the hated socks.

“Funny you should say that.” He sighed mightily and put the socks on, then tossed his dressing gown in the vague direction of the chair.

She slid under the covers and lay on her side. Sherlock’s bed was by far the most comfortable she’d ever been in, and she spared a thought for what he must have paid for the mattress. _Worth it_ , she decided. Perhaps she could save up for her own.

Sherlock climbed in behind her and switched out the lamp. “Nope, you’re already starting this out all wrong! You’re too far away,” he declared as he pulled her to his chest. They lay in a comfortable silence in the dark.

The fact that she had a dedicated drawer for her things was something they had not discussed. She had stayed over to look after Sherlock’s wounds when he had first got back to London. She gathered that Mycroft had tried to have his brother’s injuries looked at properly, but the wayward detective had been anxious to reunite with his blogger. He had begged off seeing to his damages beyond a good shower and some well-placed gauze and ointment, but then he had been in a tussle with John and undid what little healing had begun. Molly had been the best alternative since Sherlock’s usual medic wasn’t speaking to him. There had been a couple of abrasions that had shown signs of infection and by the time she had finished stitching him up, she felt it best that she keep a weather eye on him. He had insisted that the couch was awfully lumpy- a lie- and she shrugged and acquiesced immediately in the interest of getting him settled and resting without a fuss. She’d stayed for four nights, checking for fever and changing his bandages. She and Tom had maintained separate flats, or he would have had some reasonable and rather pointed questions regarding her absence. She had brought an overnight bag the second night, and while she was at work the next day, Sherlock had moved her things into a small drawer and left it pulled out for her to see. Their friendship was an odd mix of one of them saying too much and then nothing at all.

 “Molly… tonight was unscheduled. Am I still coming over on Thursday, or is this enough for you?”

“Is it enough for you?”

“It can be,” he answered. She waited, and after a minute, he went on, “If we do this more than once a week, I could start to need it more. It’ll be harder to do without when you find someone.”

“I’d have to be looking.”

He gave her a squeeze. “Don’t you think it’s too soon to give up on happiness?”

“I am happy,” she said, not sounding happy at all.

"All right, that's enough," a new voice said on the other side of the door. It was John. He didn't sound happy either.


	3. Secrets and Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looked utterly affronted, “I’m taking advantage by not shagging her? I think that’s the actual opposite of taking advantage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ran away  
> I could not take the burden of both me and you  
> "Hold On To What You Believe"-Mumford & Sons

Her mother left before she was born.

Molly dreamed of her mother sometimes, of the eyes so like her own but completely unfathomable. Eyes copper-brown, with steel in her spine and a shield of aluminium foil between her and the pain of the world. These metal things she got from her mother. Her father gave her the gifts of stone in her foundation, of worn-soft leather in her hands, of ivy crowns in her hair, of origami animals made from bet voucher slips in her pockets. Her father gave her resolve, a core of peace, of determined joy and unrelenting hope.

She heard the story whenever her Uncle Robby had a lager or two at the small gatherings on the holidays. How Reginald Hooper’s wife had up and left one day, like she did sometimes, and no one had made much of it until a month had passed because everyone knew that Betina Hooper had the wanderlust and sometimes fell so in love with a road that she had to follow it to whichever end was furthest from where she stood. On those days when the late evening sun poured like melted butter over the cracked brown leather of the second-hand sofa, she would curl into her uncle’s side and close her eyes, trying to picture Betina, the unknowable variable, as a younger woman with itchy feet, before the itch spread to her veins. She struggled to imagine herself in her mother’s over-worn shoes.

The story, as her tipsy uncle would tell it, was that her parents had been married in a ditch along a pretty stretch of road (Betina’s latest conquest) somewhere away to the west. Then Reg had come back home to London, made enough in the fighting ring to open a pub and a ring of his own, and settled down. Betina hadn’t. It was never a problem between the two, her Uncle Robby would assure her, though Molly was never certain why he troubled himself to make a point of it. She thought with all that she knew of the woman who had carried her, the relatively small matter of what had, or hadn’t, bothered her parents was little concern of hers. At any rate, while a few people had pursed their mouths and shook their heads, no one had really expected Betina to stay put.

Then one day more than half a year later, she’d shown up. She’d handed Reg a bundle of blankets. She’d dropped a satchel on the ground and a kiss on the bundle and gone away again. The bundle had contained a sleeping baby, a week old at the most. Reg hadn’t even known she was expecting. The satchel had held a few nappies, an unopened tin of formula, a bottle, and some papers. As soon as the door shut on Betina Hooper for what would not, sadly, be the last time, Uncle Robby (who had still been called Robyn in those days) sidled up to his older brother and suggested delicately that Reg should have a blood test done. This was the part of the story that Molly liked best, because of the way her heart grew so big that there wasn’t room for air in her lungs when she heard how her father had said, without looking up from her tiny face, “It’s too late for that. I’m already gone in love with the little thing, so I’ll just have to keep it.” Following a nappy change and a feed up, a quick rifle through the papers at the bottom of the pack revealed a birth certificate which had proclaimed her name to be Moelwyn Dail Hooper. Reg had taken one look at the slip of paper and decided that _Molly_ came close enough.

*        *        *

Molly felt Sherlock go rigid with the realization that John was in the hallway.

“Sherlock, please, can you come out here?”

The man in question stayed frozen. Molly wondered: if she turned her head to look, would she see an error message against a blue screen in his eyes? She inhaled, and made up his mind for him. “Open the door, John Watson. You may have done him in completely,” she called.

After a second, John did as she bid as she reached over and switched on the lamp on what had become her side of Sherlock’s bed. She and Sherlock pushed themselves up and out of the bed, his silver eyes wide with apprehension before he schooled his face. “Molly,” he said stiffly as she made to follow him and John out of the bedroom, “you don’t have to-”

“But I _do_. I will,” she said with a pat on his arm, and John gave her an appraising look before he turned and led the trio into the sitting room. The pathologist felt dread suffuse through her to heat her face and settle in her stomach. John held up a hand and went downstairs with a nappy bag he’d retrieved from the kitchen. He returned a couple of minutes later and looked bemusedly at Sherlock’s toenails. Then there was a moment of pained silence when he saw Molly sitting in his own red armchair.

Sherlock waved John towards the black chair. John hesitated, angry and hurt but unsure why. Molly rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said softly, as ever, “John, he’s _offering you_ his _chair_! Does he need to hit you over the head with it as well? He let Mrs. Hudson sit in it earlier while she held _your child_.” She hoped the unspoken part would come across clear enough, because she couldn’t get it out now that Sherlock was glaring at her like she was giving away the secret code. Which she was. She flipped her braided hair forward over her shoulder to tug on it.

John, Gods love him, took the hint, and gave a decisive nod before he carefully planted himself in Sherlock’s chair. He glanced between the two of them and asked the detective, “Are you sleep- no, I mean, clearly, are you in a rela- no, okay, have you been... having _sex_... with Molly?”

“No,” the detective responded.

John held up a finger, “Then you’re taking advantage of her, and it needs to stop this minute, Sherlock, okay?”

Sherlock looked utterly affronted, “I’m taking advantage by _not_ shagging her? I think that’s the actual _opposite_ of taking advantage.”

“Wait,” Molly reached for the blogger, folded his finger down and held his larger hand between hers. “John, I’m thirty-six years old and well versed at making my own mistakes, but you don’t know enough of the situation to understand that this isn’t one of them.” She turned to Sherlock where he stood beside this man who meant so much to him. “You’re being falsely accused of impropriety.”

“It’s hardly the worst thing I’ve been falsely accused of,” he replied airily.

Molly held her right hand out and he took it, “I hereby dissolve the secrecy clause from our agreement. All less restrictive terms shall remain in place until such a time that either party no longer requires the pact as it stands.”

“Agreed.”

Molly tugged the man down and he- for once, obedient- sank onto the arm of his own chair next to John. She linked Sherlock’s hand with John’s and held them there together until the army surgeon looked away embarrassed and she could see the flutter of her old friend’s pulse speed up. When she let them go, neither one pulled away.

Molly Hooper opened up and started at the beginning.

*        *        *

The day she met Sherlock was the start of so much. After the screaming and science and pizza, but before he nodded a farewell and slouched off to who-knew-where, she asked him if he had a safe place to go. He’d considered her for a moment and said, “I think I do now,” in a way that put cracks in her heart.

She found herself beside a long, black car almost the moment she stepped outside St. Bartholomew’s at the end of her shift. It was nothing so overt as being snatched off of the sidewalk; closer to the truth to say she was corralled and herded and manipulated so subtly that until she stood in between the chassis and the open door, tucked into the very wing of the vehicle with no space to back up, she hadn’t realized that she was being politely kidnapped. “Stock _Holmes_ Syndrome!” John would crow when she told him the story years later, the night he discovered her cuddling with Sherlock, both of them lying in the dark trying imagine the other was someone else.

She took the only move left to her and got in the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bear to write, probably because two of the characters are terribly awkward (and not always the same two), but I like the way it came out. Please let me know what you think! Oh, and I'm on Tumblr if you'd care to follow me and listen to me grouse. Same name!  
> [Molly's name](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moelwyn_Mawr)  
> Yeah, I did.


	4. Birthmarks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft knew that surely Sherlock did not continually place himself in peril merely to vex his elder sibling, but what matter was that when the effect was the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you shake my ash to the wind  
> Lord, forget all of my sins  
> Oh, let me die where I lie  
> 'Neath the curse of my lover's eyes  
> "Lover's Eyes"- Mumford & Sons

Mycroft Holmes was absolutely petrified of his little brother. It would be more to the point to say that he was afraid  _for_  the younger man, and no one had ever made Sherlock a better enemy than the one he had in himself. Mycroft knew that surely Sherlock did not continually place himself in peril merely to vex his elder sibling, but what matter was that when the effect was the same?

He had maintained a perpetual state of trickling terror since he had concluded at age six that he would, ere long, be ousted from his (ill-fitting) position as youngest child. Mycroft had been a natural worrier at a precocious age, and had researched and absorbed a general knowledge of possible birth defects and learned the rates and warning signs of miscarriage before his parents had discovered the pregnancy. (It had never occurred to him to inform them, because  _didn’t they know_?) Mycroft had already disposed of all the possibly troublesome foods by that point, and had been encouraging his mother to rest and to take larger portions at mealtimes. In this way, the little boy had begun micromanaging his baby brother’s life before anyone else knew of his impending arrival.

This had only intensified upon the delivery of the child. While family members had cooed over Sherlock through the glass of the neo-natal ward, Mycroft (now seven years of age) had tamped down his own excitement and gotten to the serious business of ascertaining that all the proper features were sufficiently represented and that the accepted number of digits were present at the terminus of each limb. Those tiny fingers and toes had become a talisman, a soothing touchstone for his younger self. Paradoxically, Sherlock's very existence had become both his greatest cause for concern and his best source of comfort. When his mind wouldn’t  _shut off_ and his existential anxiety threatened to overwhelm his focus, he would find his small brother and count twenty tiny phalanges to remind himself that occasionally (and against odds that seemed mathematically insurmountable), things went unaccountably right.

Until they didn’t.

*        *        *

Molly had not thought to see Sherlock again anywhere, much less in her morgue. He was due to be shipped out today, but she supposed the transmission she’d seen on the telly earlier had changed things. She quite nearly hugged him and John and everyone else in their little entourage in a fit of relief, before she saw that the group included Mycroft and restrained herself. That wouldn’t do. She’d been pacing around her office in a moderate state of nervousness for the last hour. Unlike the rest of London, she and her comrades had personal and specific reasons to be nervous about someone stepping into Moriarty’s shoes.

“Molly,” Sherlock said evenly in greeting, but she saw the worry in his eyes that she was sure was mirrored in her own. The first and only time Sherlock had referred to himself as a sociopath in her presence, she had raised an eyebrow and slowly shook her head at him, letting her complete disbelief show in her smile. Let others buy that tripe, she had seen him when he couldn’t hide. In the years since then, he had mostly dropped the act around her. There wasn't really much  _act_  to his behavior, so if anything, his treatment of her had worsened a bit once he knew that she understood. It didn't bother her. She rather preferred an honest reaction that hurt her feelings to a white lie, and the detective specialized in the former. She might get sore at him, but in the end she appreciated even his unflattering or poorly-timed deductions far more than she would have enjoyed attempting to maintain a softer-but-shallower friendship. As time had passed without her misusing her awareness of the fact of Sherlock's vulnerability, he had warmed to the comfort of having a friend who knew him well enough to know better, and he had let a few others in. He was as poor at navigating human interactions as she herself tended to be, but Molly had the benefit of being precisely as kind as she seemed, and so she made the extra effort to learn. What she and Sherlock had in common was that they were both aware that people were much  _more_  underneath what they presented. Secrets and private thoughts were one thing, but that others would seek to totally mask themselves in the first place served only to increase her confusion. 

With a nod, Molly acknowledged the men and asked, “What can you tell me?”

It was the elder Holmes who replied, “It’s more what we need to ask, and then we should discuss your security. You are on record as having performed Moriarty’s post-mortem. Is there any way that he could be alive?”

“Oh no, he’s very dead. If he hadn’t been dead before, he surely was after. I didn’t even put all of his parts back in him.” The pathologist caught her bottom lip between her teeth, startled by her own admission. She had cremated all of his remains, but his heart she had burned separately. She had mixed the ashes with salt and flushed them down the loo. It had seemed a fitting end, and she had seen no harm in indulging her superstitions on this occasion.

The man she hadn’t met before turned green at her last comment, but Mycroft and John looked properly pleased. Sherlock spoke up and betrayed his own fears, “Are you absolutely certain that it was Moriarty?”

Molly was stunned, “Aren’t you?”

“I was very distraught, as you recall. I…  _believed_  I saw him shoot himself, saw him die, but-”

“Yes, Sherlock, I am positive. It was Moriarty. I recognized him. It was his body: his face, his fingerprints, his birthmark, his DNA, I even checked his dental records. It was him, and he’s as dead as you can get. His brain stem was obliterated.”

“What birthmark?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her sharply.

Molly reddened, then straightened her spine and said tightly, “The one he  _had_.”

She watched it dawn on him and John caught her eyes as she looked away, “Of course,” the blogger murmured, “you said you’d had three dates.”

Sherlock looked at John, baffled, but turned back to Molly. “If I had known… I wouldn’t have asked you to handle the body,” he said in a voice uncharacteristically heavy with contrition.

She doubted he was as sorry as she had been. After she had learned about their meeting at the pool, she had taken a very hot shower. Until the water turned cold. “He’s hardly the only one I’ve regretted,” she said wryly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Mycroft uses parentheses when he thinks. My Sherlock uses ~~strikethroughs~~ , as you can see in _TicTac_. I didn't even plan that, I really don't know how that happened.  
>  There's actually quite a bit of me in this chapter. My younger sister and I have the same age gap (she almost shares Sherlock's canonical birthday too), and the scene at the nursery window exactly depicts my own experiences. Shameless self-insertion.  
> And yeah, I gave Molly and Sherlock another "not-her-face" moment to mirror the one in ASiB.  
> Please let me know what y'all think!


	5. Three Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She could, in fact, say exactly why she had first liked him. That part was easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But hold me still, bury my heart on the coals  
> And hold me still, bury my heart next to yours
> 
> So give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light  
> 'Cause oh they gave me such a fright  
> But I will hold on with all of my might  
> Just promise me we'll be all right  
> "Ghosts That We Knew"-Mumford & Sons

Morning brought true sunshine for the first time in recent memory.

By the time she was done explaining to John why he didn’t need to be worried about her feelings, it had got rather late, and John had ended up staying with Elanor in the upstairs bedroom. Molly had laid it all out for him: how the Holmes brothers had both wedged themselves irrevocably into her life in the span of six hours. She had glossed over most of what had passed between her and Mycroft in that first forced meeting, stating simply that she had ended up taking the money to spy on Sherlock after his brother had insisted. She had used it to grease a few palms and fill a few bellies in exchange for the locals keeping an eye out for the wayward man. In fact, the homeless network Sherlock now utilized had been built on the framework Molly had laid out to watch him. She had related tales of nursing a younger Sherlock through a series of overdoses and then through the withdrawal of finally quitting, him lobbing curses and insults at her as his body rattled itself to pieces in his brother’s spare room. Before the end of the first year of their acquaintance, Molly had amassed a respectable first-aid kit, found a handful of regular and reliable sources, and fallen utterly in love with Mycroft Holmes.

She could, in fact, say exactly why she had first liked him. That part was easy.

As an only child, she had longed for the easy camaraderie she witnessed between her father and her ever-present Uncle Robby. The little Hooper family had lived above their pub and the basement had housed the small-time fighting ring where the brothers taught the timid girl to defend herself and to dance using the same footwork. The only thing she could have wished for was the bond of a sibling. To have a built-in playmate seemed like a fantastic thing that had certainly worked well for Reg and Robby.

In Mycroft, she found a man who cared about his brother above all else, yet keenly felt the distance between them and was unsure how to bridge that gap. She had seen him watch, pale and hollow-eyed, as she administered naloxone and anti-emetics once and again. Mycroft had never spoken until the worst of the danger had passed, and then he had told her stories to keep the two of them awake while they held vigil. Though the anecdotes were nearly always centered on his brother, she felt that they revealed more about the man chronicling them. 

*        *        *

"Our mother," Mycroft said once as he sliced them each a piece of pound cake, "subscribes to the 'more butter' method of cooking." The young doctor poured out more coffee from the carafe as she listened, and glanced at the window to see the stained glass just starting to glow with the first streaks of dawn. It had been a long night. "She seems to believe that enough dessert cures all ills." The older man wrapped his hands around the mug of coffee for warmth, and studied the liquid like he was trying to read his brother's fate in the clouds of milk.  _Not a bad idea_ , she considered, and filed the thought away for later. "When Sherlock was four years old, he read in a book that the common frog hibernates underwater. He got it in his head to observe this himself, which is why he jumped through the February ice and into our pond in the back garden." Molly almost inhaled her bite of cake, and Mycroft smiled as he waited for her to finish laughing.

“You were… eleven?”

“Hmm, and luckily, a strong swimmer,” he turned his head then to look at Sherlock in the bed on the other side of the room, finally resting easy. Molly was relieved- if that was the word- that when he took too much, it was always of the heroin. There was hardly anything she could do about a cocaine overdose except call for an ambulance, and even the hospital wouldn’t be able to help much. She’d witnessed a few sober interactions in the three seasons that she had been looking after Sherlock and suspected that Mycroft had been pulling his little brother out of metaphorical ponds for most of their shared history. _But who pulls_ you _out?_

“You’re a good man to have around,” she remarked before sipping her coffee. They were speaking just above a whisper, more out of respect for the darkness and another dawn on the wrong side of sleep than for the patient. He would be still for hours, if they were lucky. They’d had a close one tonight; a few more minutes and he would have earned his place on a slab for something sadder and more permanent than a nap.

Still focused on the younger man, Mycroft muttered, “Not good enough, evidently,” then he turned back to her and carried on before she could contradict him, “as he got rather ill. It was an hour before our parents came home, and our older brother was off, up a tree with a book, no doubt. I ought to have dialed 999, but he seemed well enough. It wasn’t until I got him dry and warm that I noticed he was still a bit cyanotic. By then, proper adults were present, and our doctor was called. I sat up reading to Sherlock, and our mother kept us knee-deep in cakes, pies, and pastries. He’s the only person I’ve heard of to _gain_ weight with double pneumonia. His antics also necessitated the introduction of Distraction Cake,” Mycroft said while he used his fork to scrape the crumbs into a tiny hill.

“Distraction Cake?”

“A game our mother devised for when both of our parents had to be out of the house. She’d bake a cake, frost it, and take all of the rubbish out when she left. Whoever correctly guessed what sort of cake it was got a second piece after dinner. It kept us busy. She had to get creative, adding raisins or candies and having us deduce the kind, the colours, and the quantity. The only rule was that we couldn’t touch the cake, and she would know by the icing. I usually won.” Mycroft had looked fairly embarrassed as he gestured toward his middle. She wasn’t certain why, as he’d never struck her as being unhealthy.

The self-deprecating little smile he had given her had stuck fast in her mind. After that story, she’d begun to pay more attention to the Holmes’ odd eating habits, and she recalled a comment Sherlock had made to his brother about his diet when they had quarreled in one of their more lucid meetings. The pathologist turned the puzzle over in her mind, then set it aside in favour of the image of those upturned lips and soft eyes in that moment when Mycroft had been too weary to be guarded.

A handful of days after they had shared their own Distraction Cake following that near-disastrous night, she’d been in the hospital shower at the close of her shift. She had dropped her shampoo bottle on her foot when it had dawned on her that she loved Mycroft, and had fallen for him _ages ago_.

Then Sherlock got clean. While that removed a burden from all who cared for the fledgling detective, it also meant that Molly had little further direct contact with his enigmatic brother.

*        *        *

Molly heard the lab door open and knew who it was, but she didn’t turn around to greet Sherlock. She was still upset with him, and he needed to understand that it would take more than a couple of hours for her to swallow back her desperation and anger. When John had brought him in earlier that morning, she hadn’t needed to run the drug screen to see that her friend was using again. It had been her memories of his hard-won sovereignty over his addiction more than any moral outrage that had sent her hand flying when the results confirmed what she had already suspected. Despite their standing Thursday appointment, she hadn’t heard from the detective in the two weeks since the newly wedded Watsons had returned from their honeymoon. Molly had hoped that the other doctor had been keeping Sherlock busy with cases now that the wedding was over.

_Apparently not._

He spoke from close behind her, “You’re worried about me. I am sorry, Molly.”

“Are you sorry that you’re on drugs again, or that I’m worried?” She set down her pipette and spun to look up at him.

“Yes.”

The pathologist glanced at the clock and saw that her shift was over. Peeling off her gloves, she asked as she often had, “Have some coffee with me?” This time, he agreed.

He followed her to a café across the street. When they had settled across from one another, he said, “I thought he’d call.”

She knew who Sherlock was talking about. Molly thought for a moment, then she said, “When he thought you were dead, John didn’t really talk to any of us. I was nervous about trying to keep my mouth shut around him, but after the funeral, I never saw him. I think he’s one of those people who puts all of his eggs in one basket. You were the most important person in his life, and when you had to go, he didn’t have anything left for anybody else. It seems to me that nothing has changed there, so much as he thinks it should. I don’t know what to tell you, except to give him time. He has to figure out how to balance you with Mary, and he doesn’t know how you feel about him.”

“You know.” He sounded more miserable than surprised.

“I don’t count.” She tried her coffee and found it too hot. “Have you seen your brother lately?”

“Mycroft? Yes, I saw him earlier today. He was having my flat searched for drugs, so I can’t say we parted on good terms.”

Trying for casual, she inquired, “How is he faring these days? Is he well and happy?”

He snorted, “I sincerely doubt it.” He peered at her, then suddenly sat back with wide eyes, and she knew he had caught her out. “Oh, we’ve all had it wrong about you, haven’t we, Molly? You’re not over me, because you were never stuck on _me_ to begin with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think!


	6. Words and Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trouble, Mycroft thought, was that his brother wasn’t precisely wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But oh my heart was flawed  
> I knew my weakness  
> So hold my hand  
> Consign me not to darkness  
> "Broken Crown"- Mumford & Sons

Sherlock was humming to the baby when Molly left the detective’s bedroom, fresh from the shower and dressed in her spare jeans and jumper. She was struck by the sweetness of the picture they presented. She stretched and felt something pop. _Getting old._ Her birthday was in a few days. Another year almost gone, and so many words still desperately unspoken. Until last night, she’d never really told anyone. Having Sherlock deduce a secret was not the same as speaking the truth aloud. Molly felt a little lighter. Now all that remained was to make the other party aware. It made no difference that he would not reciprocate. She could give her heart without expecting to receive in kind. She had done, years since.

“Sherlock, it’s thirty-six-point-nine degrees, you nutter.” John came out of the kitchen with a bottle as the other man reached over to the desk and noted the time and formula temperature in his phone.

Molly smiled and offered to feed the little one. John nodded gratefully and passed the bottle to her. She scooped Elanor, blanket and all, out of Sherlock’s arms. The taller man tried to look like he wasn’t hovering. He was.

John headed back to the kitchen and called, “I’ll put the kettle on,” over his shoulder.

Sherlock said, “John’s tea could bring about world peace if effectively distributed. I keep meaning to bring it up to my brother. Oh! John,” he raised his voice, “I have a cleaning crew coming over in a couple of hours; we probably want to have the tiny human elsewhere.”

“You hired people to clean?”

“Yep. Some of my homeless network.”

John smiled at him. “Huh! That’s a fantastic idea, thank you.” Molly wondered if John had noticed the pink that crept up Sherlock’s neck at his praise. She looked down at the newborn girl and winked.

*           *           *

The trouble, Mycroft thought, was that his brother wasn’t precisely wrong. _Lonely_ wasn’t the right word for it, though, it was far more specific. What he felt was more akin to homesickness for a house he’d never lived in. _Fernweh_. He haunted the hallways of his own life, incorporeal, unable to turn the doorknobs and enter the rooms.

At ten, he’d taught his brother (still little more than a baby then) to read using a neighbor’s intercepted letters to his mistress. (All very oblique, still inappropriate. What had he been _thinking_ of?) That he’d also been a child at the time was hardly an excuse he allowed himself when considering his past mistakes.

The mistress, never having received the letters, felt neglected and sought more reliable companionship elsewhere. (They were doing good work.) The need to _know_ had been both the carrot and the stick in their lives.

When a local had, following an interrupted dissection of a dead squirrel, said something uncharitable about Sherlock shaping up to be a “right little aberration,” Mycroft had exacted swift retribution. The young teen had hatched a scheme to nick the results of the man’s sexually transmitted infection screening (three different ones, all nasty, one incurable), mail photocopies to his recent flings, and replace the original before the National Health Service noticed. Sherlock (at six) was a natural sham artist, providing a cute enough distraction that Sherrinford could slip in and out unseen, twice.

He wasn’t sure if the ends justified the means, or the other way around.

All three Holmes boys had minds like knives: glittering bright, keen, far too sharp to be trusted to a school. Their mother was a fine teacher, and tutors were hired for what education she couldn’t provide. They were the only children in an aging town, and were each other’s first, best, and only friends. Then came the year that both older sons had gone to university. Sherrinford had gone at approximately the proper age, but Mycroft had been unexpectedly recommended for very early enrollment. When he returned home for Christmas holidays, his little (favourite) brother was hurt and embittered over the perceived abandonment by his older siblings. What started as a fissure of strangeness had become a chasm of estrangement with dizzying speed. Both of the older boys had experienced more of the world and grown too big to fit the holes they had left in Sherlock’s life. Until he met John more than a quarter-century later, the youngest Holmes had not successfully retained another true friend.

Mycroft still hadn’t. Not really. There were people with whom he interacted for the sake of his career (and so many of them were vaguely unpleasant) and he had a tiny circle of his brother’s friends that he had become inadvertently drawn to. Close association during times of high stress had that effect, it seemed. His little brother had a knack for falling in with exactly the right sort (quite by accident), but those were Sherlock’s people, weren’t they?

_Not mine._

If only. (If only he had the words.)

 _Lonely_ came nowhere near the depth of it.

*           *           *

Molly was tidying up the mortuary at the close of her late shift when she heard Sherlock’s salutation. “Should you be up and about yet?” the doctor asked her occasional patient, knowing the answer. It was only a month since he’d been shot, and he’d been home- with his doctor's leave, this time- barely a week. Predictably, he failed to reply to her query.

Instead, he stepped close beside her and said in a low tone, “I have to tell someone who isn’t directly involved. Will you keep another secret for me, Molly Hooper?”

She suspected that he meant to reveal who had pulled the trigger on him. She trusted that he had some reason to hold his tongue. She would later prove correct on both counts. “Of course I will. Let me tuck everyone in, and then we’ll go. It’s Thursday anyway, isn’t it? Are you coming home with me?”

He nodded. “I haven’t slept well,” he mumbled as he settled on a chair as a concession to his injury, “even with the pain medicine. John won’t notice if I’m back home by dawn.”

Sherlock’s nightmares following his homecoming had been sufficiently upsetting to his already sporadic sleep schedule that he had asked her to stay with him as she had while looking after him in those first few days. She had agreed, glad to be of use to her friend.

At the time, he had asked, “How do you feel about Thursdays?”

“I don’t care much for Thursdays,” she’d said.

“Neither do I. Let’s make them better.”

Now, she was finished with her duties. Molly checked that she and Sherlock were alone and began, “ _Oh, all the money that e'er I spent_ -”

Sherlock joined in on the second line, “ _I spent it in good company_.” Together, they sang the dead to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word Mycroft uses to describe his feelings literally translates to "farsickness" and refers to a sense of longing for someplace distant. [Fernweh](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/Fernweh)  
> The song that Molly and Sherlock sing at the end, if you don't know it, is called ["The Parting Glass"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q4egb2gpIg4)


	7. Knowing and Telling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Vague, pointless intuition. It’s the Hooper knack."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of past child abuse and drugs. Please take care.  
> There's also a discussion of an unconventional relationship in the future. Although in this fandom, that's not a stretch.
> 
> In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade  
> And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down  
> Or cut him till he cried out in his anger and his shame  
> "I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains  
> "The Boxer"- Simon and Garfunkel

Molly wrote _glasses_ on the side of the box and rested it atop the others along the wall. She checked the time and raised her eyebrows. “John?” she called, and he came out of the bedroom where he’d been sorting his belongings and putting his ex-wife’s things aside for the charity shop. “Are you peckish? We’ve missed lunch by miles.”

True to form, Molly had suggested that she go home with John and help him pack while Sherlock oversaw the scouring of Baker Street. As the blogger had strapped his baby into his vehicle, he’d chuckled and asked her if she didn’t have anything more fun to do on her day off, and she’d shrugged. She enjoyed being useful, and felt that it might be a comfort for John to have company while he sifted through the detritus of his strained- and lately feigned- marriage.

“Yeah, we got busy, eh? Oh… guess maybe I should’ve thought of that before I asked you to start on the kitchen,” he said, realizing that all of his dishes and flatware were packed away already.

“Let’s go out,” the younger doctor proposed, “I know where we can get some fantastic lamb stew, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

At once, they turned to stare in helpless horror as the tallest stack of cardboard crates tilted, toppled, and hit the tiles with a dull thud. She tried to apologize for having piled the boxes so high, but he was laughing too loud to hear.

*           *           *

When they walked into The Boxer, the bartender waved and disappeared into the back. She returned a minute later on the heels of a thin, older chap who raised the partition and swept the small woman into a hug that lifted her to her toes. “Cinnamon girl! Haven’t seen you in weeks,” he said warmly, “what’ve you been up to?”

Molly’s face shone with mirth. “Running myself ragged, as usual!” She gestured to the man beside her, “Uncle Robby, this is John Watson, and the little gosling there is Elanor. We find ourselves suffering from a terrible lack of stew.”

“I’ll see you fed,” he assured her, then turned to shake John’s hand. “You’re that one who runs around with Sherlock? Good to meet you. Sit anywhere,” he said waving at the tables. They had made it before the dinner rush, and Molly saw that her customary spot was open. “I’ll pull you a couple of half-pints. John, you’ll have a cider?” And he was off.

Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young were singing about the relative merits of not cutting their hair as she led her friend to the booth where she’d done her homework as a child.

“They know Sherlock here? What am I saying, of course they do. How on Earth did your uncle know that I wanted cider?”

“Vague, pointless intuition. It’s the Hooper knack. He’s one of the men who raised me.”

Molly sketched a summary of her personal history for him. By the time she was finished, Uncle Robby was setting down their drinks and water. He’d brought two massive bowls of lamb soup, thickened with root vegetables and rolled oats and seasoned with rosemary. Her uncle smirked at her indulgently and handed her a straw before plunking down a whole basket of sliced soda bread and a pot of butter. The door-chimes rang out over the Moody Blues, and the first of the after-work crowd stepped in on a sunbeam. Molly’s uncle ran a hand over her hair and went to greet the newcomers.

John watched her drop her straw into her Guinness and said thoughtfully, “You brought me here for a reason, yeah? To let me know I shouldn't worry about raising a daughter without a mum.” She met his eyes, nodded, and took a sip. He wondered aloud, “What am I going to say when she asks? I don't see how I can give her anything but truth. What did your father tell you?”

“I was nine the last time I saw my mother.” Molly pointed to the sidewalk on the other side of the window. “I wrenched my shoulder pulling away from her, and she let me, rather than turn me loose. I don’t know what she had taken, but she was on something. My dad never had to tell me why he didn’t let her come back home to stay after she left me the first time. She loved me, sure, but she loved herself a bit more. Anyway, I wanted for nothing.” She set her bread down in her stew, then pointed towards his side of the booth.

John followed Molly’s finger to where her name had been painstakingly carved on his edge of the table, some thirty years earlier. “Oh! Am I in your seat?”

*           *           *

Mycroft would see his parents onto their train after this last short visit to Baker Street. John was here, bringing (home) the first load of his packaged belongings. At his mother’s pointed look, he removed his suit jacket and strode over to the SUV to pledge his services.

Anthea called before he could hoist a carton. There was a body at St. Bart’s. She’d created an opening in his schedule between the train station and a long lunch (an entire hour), and would he please change her title from _assistant_ to _wizard_. Mycroft actually considered it. Despite her constant sass, Anthea was irreplaceable. He knew this because it had taken four years and twenty-nine people before he’d found one who could keep up with his pace and perform the kind of diplomatic miracles he required, without him having to personally handle every detail. She knew a shade too much about his private life, but that was even more reason to keep her on his side.

After ringing off, he reached into the storage area of the doctor's vehicle, and pulled out a crate of what claimed to be _glasses_ in loopy flowing letters. He thought he knew that script. He swallowed hard.

Mycroft had seen the footage from the security cameras, both in front of her building and here, angled at him now. She spent the night with his brother weekly, on Thursdays. While he knew his little brother better than to entertain what most people would assume (Sherlock’s orientation was a _name_ rather than a label), her regular presence nonetheless indicated that however innocently she was conducting herself, she still carried a torch. _She’s not for me._

He carried the box up the stairs to his brother’s kitchen. Alone (as ever) in the dim light of the green-walled room, he traced the lines of the print across the side of the box.

Mycroft’s own preferences were harder to pin down, but like so much else that he chased after, they ran along the lines of _more_ and _unattainable_.

*           *           *

Molly marshaled her courage. “Mycroft, wait?” The man paused and let the door fall closed again, as he faced her across the anteroom of her mortuary. He had come to verify that the unknown man pulled from the skip this morning was one of his agents. _This is hardly the time_ , Molly thought, but she knew there may never be another chance. She had her nerve now and this morgue was her ground; besides, what harm would it do? What could possibly hurt worse than looking back, years from now, with regret for all that her fear had thus far kept unsaid? _I can manage this much._ _I can be brave._

She took a deep breath and offered, before she could stop herself, “I love you.” She felt a bit dizzy, but barreled ahead, “I don’t expect anything of you. I thought you should know, is all. I would want to know, if I were loved.”

“Would you indeed?”

“No, you needn’t speak; it’s probably best if you don’t.” She squeezed her eyes shut against her embarrassment. “I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it for the better part of a decade, so on _this_ subject, there’s no objection that hasn’t crossed my mind. You cannot surprise me.”

If there had been anything more to say, it would have been impossible to articulate, as his lips were suddenly pressed to her own. Startled, she opened her eyes, then let her lids fall closed again in bliss. Her fingertips brushed up his arms and curled behind his shoulders to draw him nearer. Mycroft’s kiss was gentle, his mouth moving with slow tenderness, and warmth diffused though her and tightened her belly. They broke apart after another moment, but he cradled her face and his hands felt cool on her heated cheeks. She whispered, “I was wrong: I _am_ surprised.”

“I thought- my brother-” he stopped. Molly smiled, shook her head, and deliberately placed her hand over Mycroft’s heart. He rolled his eyes and huffed out, “Then I have been an irredeemable fool.” His demeanor turned serious and he said with care, “I warn you, I’m not easy. I’m away frequently, and when I am here, I may still not be present. We will have to maintain the utmost secrecy, at least to begin with, lest you risk becoming a bargaining chip for my enemies. The worst is my family: they’re all completely mad, and to be clear, so am I. Do you want to pursue this?”

She doubted whether he understood what she’d meant by _love_. “Yes. Of course it’s 'yes,' Mycroft. I was so sure you were unavailable.” She hadn’t expected to ever be so glad that Sherlock had got something wrong.

“Well… In the interest of full disclosure, there are things I should mention before we move forward.”

 _Ah, not quite wrong, then._ “Such as your relationship with Greg Lestrade?”

Mycroft stared at her with blank astonishment. “It’s been more of an arrangement of convenience, and he will understand when I break it off,” he said, his incredulity yielding briefly to a trace of regret before he folded that emotion away.

The pathologist considered the flash of sadness she’d just glimpsed. She had an inkling that Mycroft, at least, had wished for something deeper with the detective inspector. “If you feel you ought to, though I don’t see why that’s necessary.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Just, if you like- and if he’s willing- I don’t mind.” And she truly didn’t. She was every inch a free-thinker, and Greg had certainly proven himself to be a dependable ally. If he was a bit daft, well, so much the better. Sharing Mycroft with him would be no hardship at all, provided both men were amenable. They would all need to sit down and discuss matters openly, but she had taken a chance and reaped a very handsome reward. She never had known when to quit. Maybe it could work in her favor, for once.

Mycroft straightened, and rocked back on his heels. “We must be having a miscommunication.”

“I think for the first time,” she said slowly, measuring the weight of each word on her tongue, “we aren’t.”

“Oh.” He blinked at her. “Oh,” he said again, disbelief and hope at war in his expression. “No one could be so accommodating.”

Molly grinned up at him, “Try me.”

He took her hand and placed a sweet kiss into her palm, then tucked her fingers closed over it as he replied, “My dear lady, do you know? I intend to.”

 

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.  
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.  
Get over your hill and see what you find there,  
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.  
"After the Storm"- Mumford & Sons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Almost Cut My Hair"-Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young
> 
> So here we are at last! Thank you all for riding with me so far. If you want it, I am writing a sequel. If you dislike Mystrolly, sadly this is your stop. Many cookies to Boxxer, Leythra, and Cornishrexmomma for your support, as well as everybody else on the #Mollcroft tag! I learned so much writing this.

**Author's Note:**

> http://amythe3lder.tumblr.com/


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